


Still

by coppersin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppersin/pseuds/coppersin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks about it sometimes, telling Stiles to go into the waiting dark, and feels guilty when he says nothing. Thinks of Stiles finally at peace, but ‘at peace’ means ‘gone’ and suddenly guilt is turning to desperation. Derek grabs Stiles instead and pushes him onto the bed with rough kisses and needy hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

 

It’s quiet now that the others are gone. Derek tells himself that he doesn’t notice. That he doesn’t care.

He has a routine. Waking up, shower, breakfast, and then running. For hours sometimes, and never the same direction twice. He never sees anyone and Derek is grateful for that. He doesn’t drive anywhere these days, never goes into town, but the thought of running into another person out here is particularly unsettling. Unnatural.

He’ll run until he’s exhausted, and then push a little further just to be sure. Go home and collapse onto the bed. Try to keep his mind turned off. Sleep. Wake up and repeat.

This is Derek’s life now and he can see no end to it.

\- - -

It starts as a flicker at the corner of his eye. Full stop, body rigid, he takes in his surroundings. Nothing but the forest and birds and insects and afternoon sun. He doesn’t actually feel anything and isn’t sure what he was expecting, but the… absence of something is disconcerting.

There’s nothing here. He’s certain of that. So he pushes the thought aside, like so many others, and runs even harder.

But then - every few days, and then every day, and now every few hours, when he’s running and his eyes are unfocused, there’s something there, always on the periphery.

The flicker becomes a shadow, and then that shadow takes form, and gets closer and closer. Until one morning Derek recognizes the shape. He doesn’t show surprise, doesn’t betray his emotions, even as his heart clenches and his mind stutters. He keeps running, eyes forward.

\- -

He is not chasing shadows.

He catches himself edging off course and immediately corrects himself. His instinct is to follow but he refuses.

Derek tried, for the sake of his sanity more than any real hope, he stretched his senses to their limit only to find nothing. Even stopping and staring, blatant, did nothing; the form was always gone in a moment. So now he ignores it, ignores everything but the pull of his muscles and the gasp of his lungs.

He refuses to look for it because it isn’t really there.

\- - -

Everything is simpler since the pack left. Straightforward. Every day exactly like the last. No responsibilities. No more knowing looks.

He was always going to end up like this, Derek knows.

He misses everyone. He doesn’t think of them much, wonder where they are or what they’re doing, but there are moments of passing thought. He’s their Alpha, and the need to worry will never completely pass.

Still, life on his own has come easy. He was prepared for it, but didn’t expect everything to seem effortless. His days are his own, his routine is his own, the tracks in the dirt are his own. He knows that when he goes downstairs he will find a bowl in the sink and muddy shoes by the door. He is the only one making an impact on this house.

Until he isn’t.

It begins with sounds around the house, often when he’s trying to sleep. A single footstep in the hallway, a whisper in the kitchen, the crunch of leaves beyond the porch. There may be sounds in the woods as well, but when he’s running he’s too busy ignoring the other thing to notice much else.

What matters, he tells himself, is that he doesn’t engage. It could be loneliness or isolation or, most likely, guilt. But he will not encourage this.

\- - -

Sleep is beyond him this morning. The sun isn’t up yet, the sky is just beginning to turn pink, and usually he wouldn’t be up for another hour but he’s tired of staring at the ceiling.

Frustrated, admitting defeat, he gets up. Doesn’t shower, doesn’t eat. Just changes and goes out to run.

It’s colder than he expected but Derek tries to ignore it. He’s ignoring other things as well, until he’s a few miles from the house and suddenly realizes that there’s nothing there to ignore. He slows, looking left and right, squinting into the dim forest. No, nothing. Not even a flicker.

Derek can’t see him anymore.

He stands uncertainly for a while, no longer needing to run but not ready to face the empty house. He has a routine. He should follow it. This was a phase, probably unavoidable, but it’s over now and he can get back to how he was before.

So he runs. Further than ever, miles and miles away. His clothes were already damp from the morning mist and now his pants are soaked from crossing a river. The sun is high in the sky but offering little warmth. His body has moments of rebellion, trembling hands or clenched jaw. He keeps looking before he means to, gets thoughts into his head that he shouldn’t allow.

But he always catches himself and always stops. Refuses to make this into something it can’t possibly be.

He turns and runs home, determined to keep going. He’s wet and cold and exhausted, as he intended, and when he’s crawling into bed he’s sure that he won’t have the energy to think about anything. Wake up, start a new day, shower, breakfast, run, sleep, repeat.

Derek is actually grateful to get home. He hadn’t realized just how far away he was until he was tired and fed up, and the run home had felt good in a new way, like he was running toward something for a change.

He lets the door swing open with a satisfying bang, leaves muddy prints in the entrance before toeing off his shoes. He’s about to run up the stairs just for the sound of it, enjoying leaving his mark on the house, when a smell from the kitchen catches his attention.

His muscles are tense and his claws are sliding out, full attack mode, as he strides into the kitchen and finds… nothing. Nothing dangerous, anyhow. The light is on, despite him skipping breakfast this morning, the window is open to let the afternoon breeze in, even though he had shut it yesterday. And on the stove is a simmering pot of soup.

Derek glances at the trash can and sees the telltale empty soup can.

Derek looks down at his own clothes, just to be absolutely certain.

Some emotion is curling in his stomach and he can’t even identify it.

Derek did not do this. His own mind is currently unreliable, but he has muddy shoes and wet clothes as proof. He hasn’t been here for hours, hasn’t been in the kitchen since yesterday.

Derek did not do this.

And if he didn’t… His breath is coming quicker now, he has to fight a yearning whine at the back of his throat. There isn’t the scent of another, no sign of an intruder. And his pack has no reason to hide.

Derek has ignored him, has run from him, but now he’s confronted with evidence, with something tangible, and… And that wasn’t something that he had anticipated, that… _this_ wasn’t just in his head.

Derek looks around desperately, starts listening for the slightest sound. But he’s alone. He inspects the entire house, basement to attic, and finds nothing. Not a trace.

He’s alone, and it hurts.

But he can’t give up. Derek owes him that much. So he goes outside and looks around, stands still and hopes for a shadow. Nothing.

He opens his mouth and falters. There’s no one around, nothing to be embarrassed about, but speaking feels like an acknowledgement. Like hope that he can’t afford.

Still… If there’s a chance…

He’s speaking before he realizes it, loud and uncertain. “Stiles?”

Nothing. Of course. But his chest loosens and his nerves tingle and he’s trying, again and again, louder and louder, always kind and never panicked.

And always his name. “Stiles!”

\- - -

He hadn’t expected to sleep, he planned to sit on the couch and wait, but it seems that he blinks and suddenly it’s morning. He’s stretched out, a blanket from the hall closet covering him and his face smushed into a pillow from his bed.

Derek pulls the blanket to his nose and takes a cautious sniff, already knowing that there’s no one else to smell. He sighs and stares at the floor instead of getting up. He should be out by now. Maintaining a routine could help, in case he really is losing his mind.

Doesn’t seem like it though. These small gestures feel like Stiles.

Stiles.

Derek thinks of him, and for the first time in a long while, he’s not frowning. He’s biting back a grin.

Stiles is back.

\- - -

Derek does return to his routine, but it doesn’t feel necessary anymore. It’s just a schedule he keeps to pass the time and to make himself predictable. Accessible. He will let Stiles come to him in his own time.  
Derek sees him sometimes, relishes the details he can now make out - blue hoodie, worn jeans - but keeps going.

And Stiles makes his presence known in other ways. The bed is always made when Derek returns. There is often lunch waiting in the fridge or on the stove. Once, he tracks mud everywhere as he goes upstairs to change - and five minutes later he comes down to a spotless floor, cleaned without a sound.

Once, just once, noise wakes him in the middle of the night. Footsteps downstairs - the steps of two people crossing the living room.

Derek jumps out of bed and races downstairs, uncertain. No one is there, he can’t hear anything, he stands in the dark and tries to focus and only manages to work himself into a mild panic. And he doesn’t know why.

After waiting half an hour for a threat that never shows itself, Derek retreats to his bedroom. Leaves the bedside light on and stares at the ceiling. Slowly rubs the fabric of his sheets and distracts himself with the thought of Stiles. Wonders what he does when Derek isn’t around. Wonders where he is right now.

Maybe it’s best not to know. This won’t end well. Derek understands that.

\- - -

It takes weeks, but Derek finally sees Stiles inside the house. Not just a flicker or a blur of movement. It’s Stiles, walking away, down the hallway and toward the stairs, unaware of Derek staring from the bedroom doorway. Derek can’t quite manage to speak, he’s too busy rushing forward to think, but in the moment between Stiles descending the steps and Derek reaching them, Derek loses sight of him and he’s gone. He checks downstairs even though it’s hopeless, he’s used to it now, but checks just the same.

The next morning there’s bacon sizzling in a pan and toast waiting on his plate, the butter still melting. Derek helps himself to three strips of bacon, thinks he’ll keep the rest for a sandwich that afternoon, and starts to eat with enthusiasm. The weirdness of their current lifestyle will not keep Derek from enjoying Stiles’ cooking.

Looking up mid-chew and seeing Stiles standing beside him, though, that’ll do it.

Derek nearly chokes, forces himself to swallow, and keeps looking up at him, won’t even allow himself to blink.

Stiles is here.

“Stiles.”

“Holy shit, you can see me?!”

God, Stiles is speaking.

“ _Stiles_.” He’s stumbling up out of his chair and rushing forward as Stiles does the same with a disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, man, you have no idea--” He sounds relieved. Derek can relate. Stiles reaches out without thinking and tries to give him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Instead, his entire arm slides through Derek’s chest with a strange crackle. They both look down then back up. “Oh. That’s-- Right. I should’ve expected that.”

Derek knows he should speak but he’s never known the right things to say. And now, when it really matters, he doesn’t want to screw anything up.

Stiles looks embarrassed. Retracts his hand and shakes it a little. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Stiles laughs again. “Yeah, sure.”

“Stiles.”

Stiles grins. “Yeah?”

Oh. Derek didn’t have a point, really. He just wanted to say his name. He stares for a moment and tries to think of something to say. What comes out is: “Stay.”

And they both look like they’ve been punched in the gut. Derek wonders if he’s been alone too long, if all his internal walls have fallen down. Standing here with Stiles, _talking_ with Stiles, he can’t seem to care.

“Derek,” Stiles says gently, “I can’t. It’s… difficult. But I am coming back, okay? I’m impossible to get rid of, you know that.”

Derek manages an insincere smile. “Yeah.”

“You should eat. Your food is getting cold.”

If Stiles thinks that Derek gives a damn about food right now… But he has this look, like it’s important. So Derek just rolls his eyes and grunts in annoyance, unable to hold back a smirk because it’s all so familiar and he _missed_ this, and resumes his breakfast.

The rest of their conversation is small talk. Derek isn’t hungry and doesn’t want to waste their time with breakfast but he’ll do what Stiles asked, even if he can’t seem to stop staring. Stiles asks how the food is, shows strange interest in Derek’s well-stocked fridge, wonders if there are any special dishes he can try next.

“I like chili,” Derek suggests cautiously.

“Yeah? Got any ground beef?”

Derek shrugs. “Probably. In the freezer.”

“Peppers?”

“I have some on the top shelf.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.”

“I do know how to cook, Stiles. Who do you think fed me before you showed up?”

“Precisely.” Stiles sounds exasperated. “You cook, but you don’t--”

Derek blinked. That’s all he did, he _blinked_ as Stiles was talking and now Stiles was gone, mid-sentence.

At first he can only stare at the spot where Stiles had been, alarm and dread rising up. He was here, Stiles had been here and now he wasn’t and Derek is sure this is somehow his fault.

He’s also sure that he can’t cope with this. He slams his fist onto the table and watches his fork go flying across the kitchen. He glances at it, at the half-eaten breakfast on his plate, at where Stiles was.

He can’t do this. He can’t get this upset every time, he’ll go nuts. And this _will_ happen again. Stiles had said so.

Derek doesn’t clean his mess. He leaves it as evidence of their talk, of finally having Stiles back, and goes out for his daily run.

When he comes back, the kitchen is spotless. In the fridge is a BLT and a pitcher of lemonade.

\- - -

Early the next morning Derek hears someone outside his bedroom door. He looks out but sees no one. He trudges down the hall, uses the bathroom and brushes his teeth, and comes out to find Stiles leaning against the wall.

Derek smiles and runs a hand through his hair, feeling strangely warm and shy. “Morning.”

“…Morning.” There’s something on Stiles’ mind.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Derek nods, scratches his side. “I should change. You, uh, you’ll be downstairs?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah.”

It’s not that Derek doesn’t believe him, it’s just that something feels off and he doesn’t like it. Whatever they’re doing is too new. Too much could go wrong. He grabs the first clothes he finds and hurries downstairs. Stiles is standing next to the table, cereal and milk and a peeled orange already set out.

“Thanks.”

Stiles nods, distracted, smiling faintly but most looking around like he’s trying to sort his thoughts.

“Stiles?”

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong?”

Stiles frowns. “What? Nothing. Why?”

“You just seem…” Derek gestures vaguely.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” This is ridiculous. Derek doesn’t expect much time with Stiles. This is not how he wants to spend it. But pushing any further means bringing up certain topics that he doubts either of them are prepared for.

But, it’s Stiles. And if that’s what Stiles needs-- “We can talk.”

“We _are_ talking.”

Derek huffs and starts pouring milk over his raisin bran. “I meant about the important stuff. If you want--”

“Are you-- Is this--” Stiles interrupts himself with a flail, then suddenly calms and pinches his nose. Derek suspects he’s counting to ten to compose himself. Finally, Stiles sighs and looks at him. “Eat your cereal. Go for your run. I’ll try to be here for lunch, okay?” He walks out of the kitchen and the sound of his steps ends somewhere near the front door.

\- - -

Stiles didn’t come back that day. Or the next. Derek knows that Stiles didn’t break a promise, that he had only said he would try, but he has been gone for two days and Derek doesn’t like it. He stays close, changing his run to tight circuits around the house. He tries to eat but doesn’t have much of an appetite for his own cooking. While showering he gets the water as hot and then as cold as it can go, trying to shock his body as a distraction. It doesn’t work. He just crawls into bed feeling tight and wound up and achy.

Derek hadn’t felt much of anything in the months before Stiles reappeared, mostly because he wouldn’t let himself. Now he wonders if that was a mistake, because he feels ill-equipped to handle the stress seeping into his bones.

\- - -

At some point he falls asleep, only to be woken by someone pacing the floor downstairs. Derek knows those footsteps but he’s not okay until he races down and into the living room and actually _sees_ Stiles.

Stiles stops mid-pace and turns with a grin that fades at the sight of him. “You just woke up.” A statement, not a question.

“Were you waiting?” Stiles rolls his eyes and it’s such a stupid thing to warm Derek’s heart but he doesn’t care.

“I made cookies to pass the time.”

Surprised, Derek sniffs the air. He can smell them in the kitchen - it’s a little disconcerting to be unaware of his surroundings, but Stiles has long had this effect on him so he shrugs it off and walks to the kitchen, slowly until he’s certain that Stiles is following.

The cookies are piled on a platter, one short of a dozen. Stiles must follow his eyes because he shrugs and says, “One dropped on the floor.”

And he did a very thorough job of cleaning up the crumbs - the kitchen is spotless. Derek didn’t hear any of it. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like hours that were wasted on sleep. Stiles was here and he didn’t notice.

 _Make the best of it_ , he reminds himself. “Thanks for this. These are my favorite.”

“I know,” Stiles smiles.

“You did?” Derek is touched, actually. No one else makes gestures like this, not for him.

“Yep. Well… Eat up.” Stiles is walking past him and suddenly Derek is anxious and floundering internally as he tries to suppress it.

“Where are you going?” He didn’t expect his voice to sound so gruff and demanding.

Stiles raises an eyebrow and gestures at the fridge. “Milk. For the cookies? Problem?”

“I…” _Just try_ , he decides, and manages the words, “I thought you were leaving.”

Stiles stills for a moment before pulling open the refrigerator door and reaching far back for the milk. “Me? Nope. Not yet, anyway.“

“Before--” He wants… something. But Derek’s not even sure what’s possible now, so maybe there’s no point?

“Derek?”

He looks up from his half-eaten cookie and tries to push his thoughts away to focus on Stiles. Stiles, who is standing with the milk carton in hand and clearly trying not to fidget. “Yeah?”

“Look, I know this is… weird. Or whatever a stronger word than weird is. That’s what this is. I know, okay?” Stiles busies himself with taking a glass from the drying rack and pouring the milk. “And weird is…” He shifts uncomfortably and hands the glass to Derek, mostly just looking at the floor.

Derek ducks his head to gets Stiles’ attention and when their eyes meet he turns on his best smirk. “‘Weird’ happens to us all the time.”

Stiles looks startled and a little… well, his skin would have that delicious flush right now if it were possible. Derek wants to build on that, is grateful for the distraction, but Stiles shakes his head to focus and gives him a Look. “Be serious.”

“Always,” Derek promises.

Stiles snorts. “I’m trying to make a point.” He smiles, soft and kind, but his eyes are serious. “And my point is that this is different. Okay? And maybe this isn’t what you need right now.”

“Cookies?” Derek jokes.

“Me,” Stiles responds evenly.

Silence falls between them.

“…Stiles,” Derek says firmly, “ _no_.” He tosses the last of his cookie onto the table and steps close, into Stiles’ personal space.  He wants to… This should be so simple, and… He wants to growl with frustration, as Stiles just patiently gazes up at him, and he reaches out to grab Stiles by the shoulders but remembers at the last moment and instead leaves his hands hanging awkwardly on either side of Stiles’ arms.

This moment could be awful in a lot of different ways. But it just feels sad. And there’s something in Stiles’ voice, a little tired and melancholy, as he glances at one hand and then the other and says to himself, “Again? Really?”

But Derek doesn’t know what he means. “I’m sorry,” he says, though he’s not sure why.

Stiles stares at Derek’s hand a moment longer before looking at him and managing a small smile. “Don’t be.“

“Stiles.”

“Just forget it.”

“No.” He steps back to give Stiles some space but keeps their eyes locked. The hush isn’t as tense this time. The sound of crickets filters in from outside. And Stiles is so quiet and composed, the way most people don’t know he can be, just waiting for Derek. So Derek tries to be the same. “I _want_ you here. It helps. When…”

Stiles tilts his head and waits.

“Just don’t leave again. Not without saying goodbye.” He doesn’t want Stiles to go at all, but how can he say that?

Stiles takes the time to consider his words. Derek uses the pause to look at him, really look at him, at his shining eyes and the freckles scattered across his skin. The same blue hoodie and jeans.

Finally Stiles nods. “I’ll say goodbye every time. If I can.“ He grimaces and glances at his own hands, wiggling the fingers. “It’s taking time to get used to. Can’t promise I won’t just disappear in a puff of smoke. But I’ll try.”

The relief that fills Derek is indescribable. “Good.”

They sit at the kitchen table until dawn. Derek eats half the cookies, slow and methodical, his eyes always on Stiles. Stiles keeps the conversation light.

When Derek‘s head begins to swim from exhaustion he ignores it but Stiles sees immediately. “And now, I think… it’s been a long night. And you should get some sleep.”

Derek hesitates.

“Derek,” Stiles prods gently, “it’s okay. I’ll be here a little longer.” He gestures at the platter. “I’ll clean this up. And I’ll try to come back later, maybe this afternoon?” He stands and Derek does the same, and Stiles nods his head towards the stairs. “Rest.”

“Thanks for the cookies.”

“Any time. Goodnight, Derek.”

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

He doesn’t like going upstairs, it feels uncomfortable. But he changes clothes and slips under the blanket and closes his eyes. And from downstairs comes the sound of Stiles walking around, sweeping the floor. It soothes him. And soon, he’s asleep.

\- - -

Derek still runs but it’s not like before. The idea of a routine seems unnecessary and long ago. Sometimes Stiles finds him in the woods, sometimes he’s waiting at the house. And every time he stays a little longer, says he’s getting the hang of it.

Is it for the best? Derek can’t be sure. He thinks about the alternative and becomes agitated, has to calm himself with the reminder that Stiles is here. And…

He’s becoming _more_ , not less, not fading away.

\- - -

Stiles has something behind his back and he is being so damned smug about it. Derek wants to feign disinterest but he can’t quite manage it. Something unexpected. Something _good_ and unexpected. He figures he may as well savor the experience. But he can’t experience whatever it is until he clears his plate. A massive helping of vegetables and pot roast. And it’s such a ridiculous idea, making a grown man eat his veggies, but Stiles seems dead serious about it. Derek manages to mostly hide his smile as he obediently eats.

Finally the dishes are cleared and Stiles places a large leather-bound book in Derek’s waiting hands. There’s no title, no price tag. Derek carefully opens it and flips through the pages, blinking quickly at the flashes of unexpectedly bright colors streaking by.

He stops at a random page. A full-page picture of a painting, something famous and old and gorgeous and full of vivid blues and violets. He turns the page and it’s a sunburst of oranges and reds. The next page is a stark contrast of black and green scribbles.

“Stiles, this is…” Another page is a woman in a sundress walking through a field of pink tulips.

“It’s good, right?” Stiles sounds a little nervous.

Good doesn’t describe it. He doesn’t know enough about art to recognize any of these artists but the colors and imagery are stirring something in him that only Stiles affected before.

There are no captions, no references. Not even a barcode on the back.

“Thank you,” Derek says sincerely, taking the time to look up and smile widely before turning the page.

Stiles beams and busies his hands by rubbing them on his jeans. “I may or may not have done the whole ghost thing and pilfered it from a bookstore.”

“Theft? For me? I’m touched.”

“Eh, you’re worth it. And I figured you could use something to keep you busy.”

“Busy,” Derek echoes, looking up from his book.

“I’m just saying. You’re out here, alone--”

“I’m not alone. I have you.”

Stiles smiles. “Yeah you do. But I’m not always around, you know? And even a werewolf needs a break from marathon runs.”

\- - -

Derek amuses Stiles with a story about Peter’s night in the county drunk tank while a pot of stew boils on the stove. They’re having too much fun, apparently - Stiles can’t stop snorting - because they don’t notice the rattling or hissing. With a sudden boom and clang, the lid flies off the pot. Brown splotches are everywhere and steam is billowing up to the ceiling, and Derek--

Derek is touching Stiles. Clutching him, actually, because he hadn’t thought, only reacted, grabbing Stiles by his hoodie and pushing him down at the sudden blast.

They can _touch_. Derek doesn’t know what this means. He doesn’t really care. Adrenaline is filling his body, making his breath ragged and his muscles taut but he’s so very careful as his hands loosen and drag along the hoodie to Stiles’ sides, never losing contact, and he lifts Stiles to his feet.

He’s sure. But it doesn’t stop him from checking, rubbing his palms across Stiles’ neck and hands. This _is_ Stiles. His body feels the same. Room temperature and no pulse, but it’s him.

Stiles seems too stunned to comment. His eyes follow Derek’s movements and then glance up. “I, uh… I don’t…”

“Me either,” Derek admits.

“Should… Um…” Stiles licks his lips nervously, distracting Derek. “I mean, should we--” He licks his lips again and Derek unconsciously mimics him. Stiles’ eyes watch his tongue, glance away, look down again, and that’s enough of a sign for Derek. He lunges forward, hands getting a better grasp and pulling Stiles closer, as close as possible, and kisses him, sucking his lips in between his own. There’s no taste but the sensation is overpowering. Derek tilts his head and delves deeper, licking and sucking and biting desperately, and Stiles is giving as good as he gets. Their hands are pushing shirts up and out of the way and Derek scratches and kneads at Stiles’ rib cage as Stiles fumbles in his uncoordinated attempt to unzip Derek’s jeans.

Growling against his lips, Derek pushes until Stiles’ back hits the wall with a bang. Shirts are gone and jeans follow and he moves on instinct. Derek is drowning in pleasure and this is _real_.

It happens quick and dizzy. Time isn’t really a concept.

\- - -

Stiles keeps his word. He always says goodbye before leaving.

Sometimes, he dissipates like mist.

Sometimes, he just disappears.

\- - -

There’s something in the woods.

Derek thinks it’s Stiles at first, lets his fangs slip out and his lips split into a wide smile because he thinks that they’re playing a game and it has been too long since he hunted something. But he chases that elusive hint of shadow for a mile and never seems to get nearer, and something is rubbing at his instincts until Stiles appears to his left, hands in his pockets, with a lazy grin. “Hey.”

All the playful enthusiasm drains from him and he looks around with urgency. The shadow is still ahead, at the base of the trees, unmoving.

Stiles isn’t looking, though. He keeps his eyes on Derek.

“I think--”

“Rarely,” Stiles teases. And keeps talking. His face is a little brighter, his words are a little more cheerful, as he steps close and keeps his eyes on Derek. His body, though, is still. No wild gestures or jittery leg. Stiles knows, Derek realizes, he noticed it too and he’s ignoring it.

Derek feels unsure and lost. So he follows Stiles’ lead, smiles and teases him in turn, and they turn their backs to the shadow and walk to the house.

\- - -

They stay busy. When Stiles is around he always has a list of ideas. And they find themselves naked and smiling nearly every day.

And when Derek is alone, he has books, ten of them now. More leather-bound art like the first. Some follow a theme; others are a strange collection of random paintings. But the colors are always alluring.

\- - -

One day, it’s sunny and warm.

They walk around the yard and Derek points out where all the flower beds and landscaping used to be. Stiles suggests they plant a few bushes to get things started again, but Derek doesn’t show much interest in change.

Stiles just shrugs. “It’s your world. I’m just living in it.”

\- - -

One day, it’s overcast and chilly.

They stay in the kitchen, making soup and cornbread, standing side by side as they chop ingredients.

“My mom used to bake when the weather was bad,” Derek says, focusing on his pile of celery. The memory doesn’t hurt like it used to but he’s not used to telling someone this stuff.

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles keeps peeling carrots and tries to sound nonchalant. It isn’t working but Derek appreciates the effort. “What was her specialty?”

“Banana bread. It was amazing. I could eat an entire loaf on my own.”

“Ah, the famous werewolf metabolism.”

“Once I got into junior high, I wasn’t around much. So she would only make banana bread if I was here to help. It was an excuse for us to hang out.”

Stiles smiles but doesn’t say anything else. The only sound is their knives hitting the cutting board. Derek is lost in thought and the rhythm of his chopping, thinking of how many years have passed. Thinking of how he used to be, before the fire.

“You would’ve liked me then,” he says suddenly, without meaning to. It’s not something they ever discussed, the difference in their age. Derek supposes it doesn’t really matter anymore.

“I like you just fine now.”

\- - -

One day, it’s cloudy but warm.

They spend the day cleaning. They wash the windows and clear dead leaves from the porch. Mostly they pass the time with small talk.

“Where is everyone?”

Derek shrugs. “They moved into town. Isaac is staying with Scott. The others are renting a place downtown.”

Stiles laughs in disbelief. “Oh, wow. Peter must be driving them _crazy_.”

Derek hesitates before asking, “What about you - have you seen your dad?”

“…Not for a few days.”

\- - -

And one day, it’s hot and dry and bright.

They lay an old quilt out on the grass and lie under the sun all day. Derek brought his books but mostly he closes his eyes and stretches and soaks in the sunlight. Birds are chirping in the trees. Bees are buzzing nearby. It’s peaceful.

Stiles pretends to browse through the newest book but really he’s propped up on one arm and staring at Derek. For nearly an hour. Derek ignores it for a while but eventually caves and looks over, raising an eyebrow in question.

Stiles meets his eyes but doesn’t stop chewing his lip.

Derek raises his eyebrow a little higher for emphasis and prods, “Stiles?”

“Derek.”

Derek rolls his eyes and settles into a comfortable position. If Stiles wants to talk, he can talk. In the meantime, a nap is very tempting.

He’s just starting to doze off when Stiles says, “Derek?”

An amused huff. “Yeah?”

“ _Derek_.” Derek complies by opening his eyes and trying to look alert.

Stiles is giving him this look, and Derek doesn’t know what it is but he doesn’t like it. Stiles scoots closer and crosses his legs. Derek continues to wait and rests his hand on Stiles’ knee, gently massaging absentmindedly.

Stiles covers Derek’s hand with his own but he doesn’t stop him. He glances at their hands and then looks at Derek, resolved.

“Derek? Why do you think I’m dead?”

 


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to set the mood for this story, I highly recommend listening to The Lake by Aqualung.

Derek is alone for two days. He only has himself to blame, but the instinct to run had been too strong.

Stiles must be close because he’s leaving small traces around the house and yard, like he did in the beginning. Derek is reassured and ashamed, because he wants Stiles with him but doesn’t have the guts to seek him out. To look him in the eyes and explain. So Derek falls into his old routine and Stiles waits. Derek doesn’t deserve his thoughtfulness, but he’ll take it and be grateful.

Though he can expect Stiles’ patience to only last so long.

\- -

The kitchen. “Derek?” The hallway. “Would you stop!” The front yard. “HEY!” Middle of the woods. “No! You _will stop_! Just because you have werewolf speed no longer means I can’t catch your ass!”

“I don’t--”

“ _Shut_ up! Just don’t, whatever you’re gonna deflect with, I am saying _No_! You’re going to listen to me and you will not run or tune me out or whatever the fuck. You. Will. Listen.” Arms spread wide, a calming breath and then suddenly shouting, “I don’t know what I’m doing! And neither do you! The only way this works is if we stick together! We--” Stiles suddenly deflates at the word and his arms fall. His tone steadies. “I can’t be the only one trying, Derek.”

Derek blinks. He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He gets this feeling sometimes, like they’re having two different conversations. And if they’re not talking about keeping Stiles around, what else is there?

\- - -

Derek returns home after sunset. He finds Stiles sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. Derek sighs and sits down beside him. Stiles glances over expectantly, looking a little glum, but he doesn’t say anything.

There’s no tension between them. The quiet is nice, actually. After two days on his own it’s enough just to be near Stiles, to be reminded that he’s still here. Maybe this will have to be enough, he thinks. He doesn’t realize he said it aloud until Stiles glares at him and says, “Well fuck that.”

Derek wants to snort and laugh at him, wants to smooth over this discord and go back to what they were. He has no idea how to, of course - his social skills were never great and the past few years have worn him out. But at the very least Stiles deserves the truth. And if things change, so be it.

Derek sighs again, and breaks the silence.

“It was a car accident. You died on impact. I wasn’t there, I don’t know the details. If you’re looking for answers, you came to the wrong place. I have nothing else to offer you.” The obvious confession: Derek didn’t protect him.

“A car accident,” Stiles repeats softly. “That makes sense.”

Derek doesn’t want to talk anymore. He doesn’t want to think about that night ever again. He takes Stiles’ hand and pulls him up and leads him into the living room. Stiles settles himself on the couch and Derek lies down, stretching his legs out and resting his head in Stiles’ lap without shame. He falls asleep to the sensation of fingers running through his hair.

\- - -

When Derek wakes up he’s alone, carefully tucked under a blanket. Something heavy is resting on his stomach and he rubs his palms across his eyes before trying to focus. Another book.

Not an apology, obviously - Derek is the only one that should be sorry. But-- A gesture, maybe? A sign that all is forgiven and they can move on.

“It’s a good one.”

Startled, Derek jumps up. He looks a little wild with messy hair and wide eyes, but a ghost appearing beside him is still weird.

Stiles just smirks.

“It’s too early to be so smug,” Derek grumbles.

“I will not be criticized by the guy with only three facial expressions.”

Ignoring him, Derek untangles the book from the crumpled blanket and flips through it. The theme seems to be faces this time. He even recognizes a couple: Mona Lisa and Picasso. “Thank you for this. For all of them.”

“Yeah, well, art is good therapy. Keeps your mind active.”

“You keep me active enough already.” Derek turns the pages to stay busy so it won’t sound like a big deal when he asks, “How long were you stuck on the couch last night?”

Stiles shrugs. “About an hour. And I was not ‘stuck’ - you’re surprisingly comfortable. And hot.”

Amused, Derek glances up and grins. “Yeah?”

“God, no-- I mean, yes, very much yes, but--” If Stiles could blush, he would be a lobster by now. “Your temperature is what I meant. You are literally a very hot person. Almost made up for my lack of body heat. Must be a werewolf thing. Right? Yeah. Sooo…”

It’s obvious that Stiles is desperate to change the topic, so Derek tries not to laugh and instead holds up his book. “You’re right. This looks good.”

Stiles’ shoulders sag with relief. “Yes! Yes, it is. And I figured, you know, I couldn’t say goodbye so leaving a present was just as good.”

“I _do_ appreciate this but next time, wake me. Please?”

“I think you need rest.”

 _I need you_ , Derek thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Although it might be obvious, judging by how closely Stiles is watching him. Instead, Derek nods towards the kitchen. “Breakfast?”

Stiles is looking at him with a mix of love and frustration, and Derek suspects that he would have a similar look, often, if they had dated.

\- - -

Whatever was outside crawled in during the night, settling in the basement.

Derek opens the basement door but keeps a firm grip on the handle. He feels skittish. He forces himself to look down and all he sees is black. The first two steps are visible but beyond that, nothing. As if the shadow had consumed everything.

All he senses is a strange sort of wet echoing chasm, like he’s staring down into a cave. Like what’s below is no longer part of his home.

And he doesn’t understand it, really, but he _knows_.

He stares down into the darkness and he thinks, _This is death_.

\- - -

Stiles isn’t around and Derek decides that he needs some distance too. So he goes for a run, unnerved but still cautious, always surveying his surroundings.

When he comes home, there’s a padlock on the basement door and Stiles’ lips are pressed into a thin line but he doesn’t say anything so neither does Derek.

\- - -

He thinks about it sometimes, telling Stiles to go into the waiting dark, and feels guilty when he says nothing. Thinks of Stiles finally at peace, but ‘at peace’ means ‘gone’ and suddenly guilt is turning to desperation. Derek grabs Stiles instead and pushes him onto the bed with rough kisses and needy hands.

\- - -

Stiles is nearby and he is furious. “We are running out of options, we are _running out of time_!”

Derek opens his eyes. He’s alone.

\- - -

He isn’t sure where the storm came from. It had been clear skies an hour ago when he decided to go for a run, with Stiles encouraging him to get out of the house and promising cake on his return.

But now grey clouds are gathering and there’s the growing rumble of thunder as the wind picks up. He’s ready to turn around anyhow and the rain will feel nice, so it’s not really a problem. It’s energizing, actually, so much motion and noise in the sky.

He runs faster and faster, leaping over a creek, occasionally dragging his claws across tree trunks for the satisfaction of marking his territory. He’s smiling and lively and free. Thinking of Stiles, and what he’ll do to him when he gets home.

The forest is streaking by, a mess of greens and browns and black, and he doesn’t notice anything strange until he focuses on the horizon and realizes that the trees are moving in ways that they shouldn’t.

No, not the trees. Their shadows.

Derek skids to a stop and crouches down, claws at the ready, and stares at a patch of trees to his right, at the ground beneath them, and catches movement. Shadows are moving at odd angles, adjusting as he blinks. As lightning flashes, the shadows twist and stretch - but they never retract. Long thick lines of black are glued to the ground and they’re multiplying with every flash.

This isn’t natural. Nothing good can come of it. He doesn’t want Stiles anywhere near it, can’t believe he ever wanted to encourage Stiles to embrace it. Derek isn’t in danger but he starts running, ignoring the black pooling behind him.

He gets home sooner than seems possible and Stiles is waiting on the porch with his arms crossed, staring past Derek.

Derek is soaked and gasping for air as he bounds onto the porch. The skies are a swirling gunmetal grey and the lightning is nonstop. It’s hard to see much beyond the downpour but Derek can make out trees in the distance, turning black.

Stiles sees it but he doesn’t seem surprised. He’s not showing much emotion at all. Instead he leads them inside and hands Derek a towel, and waits to speak until Derek is a little drier.

“We’re not going into the woods anymore,” he says firmly, and that’s the end of it.

\- - -

Derek falls asleep curled up with Stiles on the couch. And when he wakes up, Stiles is still there. Derek is a little confused but pleased.

“Hey,” he grins sleepily, running a hand through his hair. Between the rain and sleep, it’s sticking out in several directions. “How long was I out?”

“All night. It’s morning. Sleep well?”

“Very. Didn’t think you’d be here.”

“I decided to stay,” Stiles admits, idly picking at a loose thread on the blanket covering them.

“I’m glad.”

“No,” Stiles says, looking up. “I mean, I’m staying. I’m not leaving anymore.”

“I… guess I didn’t realize that was an option.”

“I can stay out of your way,” Stiles offers, suddenly fascinated by the loose thread. “I know that I can get exhausting - all day, all night, it could be too much.”

“No.” Derek moves closer and rests a hand against Stiles’ jaw. “Hey, look at me. If I knew you could do that, I would’ve asked weeks ago.” Stiles nods but he still seems a little uncertain. Derek immediately hates everyone that ever gave Stiles a hard time. He leans in and brushes a soft kiss across Stiles’ lips to reassure him. “And this goes both ways, you know. Have you imagined what it’s going to be like, alone with me 24 hours a day?”

“I have imagined it.” Stiles nods solemnly but the mischief in his eyes gives him away. “Frequently and in vivid detail.”

Derek chuckles and nibbles at Stiles’ neck to show his enthusiasm.

　

\- - -

The shadows don’t come any closer to the house. There are no more storms. And the basement remains locked.

Not going into the woods soon becomes not going outside, but Derek doesn’t mind. He thought he would go crazy being cooped up all the time, but Stiles always has plenty to keep them busy. Including a very inventive list of places to have sex.

“Obviously,” Stiles retorts. “I have you all to myself. I’m gonna use it to my advantage.”

They settle into a routine, a just-the-two-of-us routine. It’s a good way to live.

\- - -

He wonders if Stiles is safe now, if maybe they can wait out the darkness. But he doesn’t say anything to Stiles, figures he shouldn’t push their luck. They never had much to begin with.

\- - -

Stiles keeps his word. He doesn’t leave anymore.

Instead, sometimes, he goes still.

He sits on the floor or on the bed, takes a deep breath he doesn’t need, and his body stiffens. He just… stops. No movement, no sound. Stares at the wall through half-lidded eyes.

It doesn’t happen often and it doesn’t last long. Stiles says it’s his way of regaining his energy, so that he’s strong enough to stick around.

“But I can still hear you,” Stiles swears. “Just, you know, just in case you need me.”

Stiles says that it’s like sleeping but Derek doesn’t believe him.

“Do you dream? Or do you… go somewhere?”

Stiles seems startled but he just gestures at his own body. “I’m right here.”

“Not all of you.”

When Stiles is resting, Derek stays close. He chooses a book and sits beside his rigid form, slowly turning the pages. The paintings are so vibrant. Like Stiles. Nothing else seems the same in comparison.

\- - -

Winter must be coming early this year; the days are so short. Seems every time he looks outside it’s dusk.

\- - -

The first few flickers, Derek tells himself that it’s just Stiles moving around. It’s denial and he knows it, but he’s not ready for anything to change.

He can’t ignore it for long. One afternoon he turns a corner and there it is, a wisp of shadow at the hinge of the doorway where no shadow should be, flickering at the edges like candlelight as it reaches further and further out.

It’s a bad sign but it’s so unusual. Derek feels intrigued and captivated, and he’s reaching out without thinking. Stiles materializes next to him and immediately grabs his hand.

“Don’t,” Stiles snaps. He sighs and makes his voice more gentle. “You don’t look at it, okay? You look at me. Anytime you see it, you focus on me.”

Derek doesn’t understand it. Stiles says he doesn’t need to.

\- - -

Sleep is different now. Stiles is nervous and tries not to show it. He doesn’t stop Derek from sleeping but he looks so relieved when he wakes up. Derek tries to press him for a reason but doesn’t get much.

“Rest is good,” Stiles admits, tugging at his sleeves. “And eating well and just-- It’s good. Right? You should do the things that make you feel healthy.” He shrugs. “I guess I just miss you more, now that I’m around all the time. I like it better when you’re awake. That’s all.”

Derek wants to protest but he can’t actually find anything wrong with Stiles’ explanation. It’s not a lie exactly, he can tell, but it doesn’t feel like the complete truth either.

Stiles sees his hesitation and scowls. “Whatever, man. One day, you’re gonna see that I’m right.”

\- - -

The living room is the first to go. Everything looks normal when Derek passes it on his way to the kitchen; five minutes later he returns and it’s gone. A wall of black just beyond the hallway and nothing more. Another part of his home gobbled up.

There hadn’t been noise or movement or a single swollen shadow to warn him. His heightened senses are useless. He can only walk up to the darkness and stare, his forehead bunched in confusion. Around him, morning sun warms the wooden floor. But in front of him, stretched wall to wall and up to the ceiling, is solid black. There are no shades of grey between, no hint of the sun sneaking past. Just black.

His chest is heaving with ragged breaths when his eyes suddenly widen in panic and he looks away. Stiles had told him not to look. Desperate for something to focus on, he stares at the staircase and forces his breathing to even out. When Derek is absolutely sure that he can resist temptation, he walks to the stairs, very aware of the darkness at his side but refusing to acknowledge it.

\- - -

The other rooms are easier to contain. As bedrooms and closets disappear one by one, Stiles simply shuts the door and walks away.

They spend the entire day closing doors and ignoring shadows and not talking about it, as the house shrinks around them.

\- - -

It’s late.

There’s not much left. The hallways. His bedroom. The kitchen.

They’re going to have one last meal at the table. “The last supper,” Stiles jokes.

They are determined to enjoy this. They take their time and chat like they used to. They chop side by side and end up with too much food, even for a werewolf.

Shadows are seeping in through the cupboards, oozing out like oil, spreading across the walls slow and steady.

But the food is delicious and the conversation is great. Stiles tells several corny jokes, complete with over-the-top gestures, and Derek steals bites of his steak just for the faux-disgruntled look. There are even a handful of candles taken from the emergency weather kit in the pantry.

When dessert is gone and the wine bottle is empty, Stiles takes Derek’s hand and leads him out of the dimming kitchen. The hallway is still intact and the bedroom shines like a beacon.

Derek sits on the bed and watches with interest as Stiles closes the door and locks it, and only then does he notice the pile of wooden planks and nails on the floor. Derek isn’t sure where he even found the stuff, but Stiles doesn’t offer an explanation, simply picks up a hammer and gets to work boarding up the window and door.

\- - -

They settle into their new lifestyle easily enough. Derek is tired a lot and spends much of the time napping, but the waking hours are spent on the bed or sprawled out on the floor.

Their conversation is intimate. Stiles talks about his mom. Derek opens up about Laura, and then his family. They exchange childhood stories.

The sex takes an interesting turn when Stiles decides to memorize every inch of his skin.

\- - -

Stiles gently shakes him awake. “It’s time to go.”

Derek doesn’t understand. He peers up at Stiles with bleary eyes before finally pushing himself up and scratching at the back of his neck. He’s still so tired.

He wants to ask Stiles to lie down with him but when he looks over the words die on his lips.

Behind Stiles is nothing.

Only the bed is visible, illuminated by the bedside lamp that is no longer there. Everything else is black. The bed feels like a life raft at sea.

“We have to go,“ Stiles repeats, strangely calm. He stands up before Derek can stop him and although Derek cannot see the floor, he hears Stiles’ shoes treading across it. Stiles holds out a hand and gestures for Derek to follow. His stomach churns at the thought but he follows Stiles’ example and is relieved when his feet hit the invisible floor.

The lamplight shines on Stiles’ serious eyes and Derek just stares.

“It’s difficult to see. So I’m going to hold your hand, and I’m going to lead and you’re going to follow. You walk only where I walk, understand? We’re going downstairs, outside, and we’re getting in the car.”

Outside seems like a very bad idea but Stiles seems so sure. Derek just nods his head, numb and obedient. He takes Stiles’ hand and clutches it tightly, intertwining their fingers, using Stiles as his anchor. Derek gives the bright bed one last look of longing before nodding to show he’s ready. Stiles pulls them forward, further away from the light and finds the doorknob. He must have torn down the boards while Derek was sleeping because the door creaks open easily enough.

Derek doesn’t like this. But Stiles keeps walking and he keeps following.

They’re in the hallway. The lamp illuminates a little of their bodies but nothing else. They walk. Stiles’ shoes squeak on the polished hardwood floor.

It’s there, Derek reminds himself. It’s all still real, they just can’t see it. He tries to reassure himself but grips Stiles’ hand even tighter.

He can smell the wood, hear the echo of their footsteps. But he has this strange idea, that if he reached out his hand he wouldn’t touch the wall - there would be nothing but an abyss.

By the time they turn the corner onto the staircase, the bedroom light is gone. The window of the front door is barely visible but it seems to float in nothingness. Stiles navigates the stairs with confidence and leads Derek to the door and outside.

It’s unnaturally dark but the surrounding woods are still visible. The scents of nature greet him but there’s nothing to hear except the gravel crunching beneath their feet. The world is silent.

Even the crickets are gone.

So are the stars.

Up ahead is the Camaro. Stiles guides him into the passenger seat and only then releases his hand. Derek shuts the door and looks out the window, trying to make out any details of their surroundings. There’s not much to see.

As soon as Stiles turns the key and the car’s engine rumbles to life, the vibrations run through Derek’s body and the feel of something familiar eases his tense muscles. He remembers how tired he was before and thinks how nice it would to sleep while Stiles drives.

He closes his eyes and leans back against the headrest.

“Derek?”

“Hmm?”

“Derek!” A gentle but persistent finger is poking his ribs. He opens his eyes and looks over. “I need you to stay awake.”

Derek nods.

“Say it! Say you’ll stay awake.”

“I’ll stay awake.”

Stiles pulls out of the driveway and turns onto a newly paved road that Derek doesn’t recognize. The headlights illuminate what’s ahead but it’s just trees and ditches and more road. The repetition starts to leave him a little dazed and it’s getting harder to keep his eyes open.

“Talk to me,” Stiles requests, keeping his eyes on the road.

“I’m all out of stories,” Derek shrugs. He’s never talked to anyone as much as he talked to Stiles these past few months.

“With a  family like yours? Not possible. Tell me one about Peter. Something good. Something I can blackmail him with later.”

Derek rolls his eyes but starts talking.

\- - -

They’ve been driving for a long time. Probably hours, but Derek can’t be sure. It’s still just asphalt and forest.

There aren’t any road signs, he notices. And they haven’t gone through any towns, haven’t even passed a single house.

But Stiles must know where he’s going. So Derek stops thinking about it.

\- - -

With a sudden shout, Stiles slams on the brakes.

The Camaro’s tires squeal as the car jerks to a stop. Derek has to brace himself to stop from going through the windshield. He shoots Stiles an incredulous look, but Stiles is staring ahead with wide eyes and a taut mouth. Derek follows his gaze and looks ahead.

The headlights reveal a few more feet of road. Beyond that the asphalt crumbles into loose bits of rock on grass and beyond that… Beyond that is a very familiar emptiness.

This is the end.

Already, tiny sparks of shadow are creeping along the grass and gravel. Derek can only sit and watch, unsure. He will do what Stiles asks.

But Stiles isn’t telling him what to do. He’s too busy squinting at the blackness and shaking his head. “Fuck,” he whispers. “ _Fuck_.” And then he’s slamming the steering wheel with his fists and shouting, “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”

Stiles grips the steering wheel tightly and tries to compose himself while Derek keeps an eye on the road. The grass is already gone and the shadow is slowly eating away at the pavement. He turns to warn Stiles, but Stiles is already staring at him with urgency.

“Derek, I need you to listen.” He reaches out and wraps a hand around Derek’s neck, thumb stroking below his ear, and pulls him a little nearer. “We’re close. We’re so close. But we can’t find you. And we’re out of time.” Stiles glances ahead and then refocuses on Derek. “I need you to _do_ something. Anything. Move or make a sound or say something. Just-- Give us a way to find you.”

But Derek is just confused and frightened. “I don’t understand.”

“Shit. I know. I’m sorry.” Stiles’ shoulders slump and he pulls away. “I had to try.”

Derek waits, anxious, and wonders how much time they have left. “…Stiles--”

Stiles holds up a hand. “Gimme a second. I just to think, okay?” He chews on his lip and stares ahead, eyes darting back and forth as he considers what options may be left. But he keeps shaking his head, so Derek figures they don’t really _have_ any options.

After another moment, Stiles glances left and right. He looks at Derek and offers a wan smile. Looks ahead and glares at the darkness. Finally, he nods slightly.

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters to himself. “Yeah, okay.” He turns back to Derek and his smile is stronger this time. “We need to get out of the car,” he says with conviction.

Derek’s brain stutters. “I don’t--”

“You don’t understand. I know. There’s gonna be a lot of that, so I need you to just trust me, okay?”

Derek can do that. He nods his agreement and waits. With only a slight hesitation, Stiles reaches past him and unlocks Derek’s door.

“Me first,” Stiles insists. “Just in case.” He climbs across and onto Derek’s lap with more coordination than Derek thought possible. He gets a firm grip on the door handle and quickly pecks Derek on the lips before swinging the door open.

Derek doesn’t know what he was expecting but it’s just more of the same. Black. Stiles navigated the house, maybe he can find their way out again?

“Here we go,” Stiles murmurs, stepping out and pulling on Derek’s hand to make him follow.

They’re standing, but Derek isn’t sure on what. There isn’t the crunch of gravel or softness of grass. They should be in a ditch but there’s no incline. It’s just a void.

Seeing the car, their last refuge, from the outside is disconcerting. The interior is too dark to see, but the engine idles as the headlights shine bright, reflecting nothing.

The road is gone. The car will be next.

“Are you sure?“ Derek hates himself for asking but he feels so wildly unprepared for this.

“No,” Stiles admits. “Not that we have a choice… You need to let this place go.”

The car is gone and all light is gone with it. Derek immediately reaches out. “ _Stiles_.”

“I’m here.” Steady hands run up his arms and rest at his shoulders. “I have you.”

Derek nods and presses their foreheads together. They’re still here.

“Derek, this is what you’re going to do.” Derek waits. “You’re going to close your eyes.”

Derek doesn’t understand - it’s already dark - but he complies. “Now what?”

Stiles replies by pulling even closer and crashing their lips together. Derek doesn’t think, just responds, running hands up and down his back and curling his tongue as far into Stiles’ mouth as it will go. Stiles is tugging his hair until it hurts and biting his lips and tongue. Derek tilts his head for better access and--

And Stiles abruptly stops, stepping back but keeping an arm around his neck. Derek keens at the loss.

“You felt me.”

“Yes.”

“Are your eyes still closed?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now you’re going to hold on to that feeling, and you’re going to focus on it. Try to build on it. You know how I feel - now you need to remember how I smell and the sound of my heartbeat.”

“Stiles--”

“Like before. Remember what I was like before. You’re going to reach out and find those things. My scent. My heartbeat. And you’re going to follow it.”

“But I can’t.”

“You can.” Stiles’ arm slides away and Derek grabs at it desperately, but Stiles stays just out of reach. “I’m right here, Derek. Try to sense me like you would anyone else. Smell me. Listen to my heartbeat.”

Derek nearly refuses and tries to grab him again. “You don’t have those things.”

“Yes I do,” Stiles snaps. “ _Try_.”

Derek is shaking. He wants to stop this. But he keeps his eyes shut and does what Stiles asks. It isn’t hard, the details of Stiles have been burned onto his brain for a long time, and--

Derek nearly chokes. He feels…

Stiles’ heartbeat. He would know it anywhere. But it’s far away, miles off, and Stiles is here so how can that be?

There’s something wrong. He can no longer feel the ground beneath him.

“You found me?” Stiles’ voice is starting to tremble.

“No. I mean _yes_ , but something’s not right. Stiles, we can’t trust it. You sound so far away but you’re right here.”

“No,” Stiles says sadly. “I’m already gone.”

Growling in disbelief, Derek lunges forward but there’s nothing there. And nothing beneath him. And that heartbeat is pounding in his ear because it’s all he can focus on.

He reaches forward again but his arms won’t move. He feels sluggish and heavy and moving forward isn’t really moving forward. And still that heartbeat in his ear.

So he forces himself to calm down, to focus, to _try_ as Stiles had insisted. And something inside of his mind loosens.

Derek isn’t sure what any of it is, but he’s letting go of something and reaching for something else. The panic in him at the thought of leaving changes, is refashioned into urgency - what’s ahead is suddenly so much more than what’s behind, and beyond beyond beyond is Stiles. His heartbeat.

Gravity redefines itself and his stomach lurches and he isn’t standing, he realizes, he’s lying down now and he’s still so heavy. And cold. And scared. And there’s something wet and thick sliding onto him and into his nostrils and mouth and he can taste it and it’s more distinct than anything in months and--

Mud. Mud is covering him, choking him. He struggles weakly to move and manages to free his mouth. Gags at the earthy taste and coughs as his lungs struggle for air. He pulls harder and his limbs are finally free and he manages to roll over and--

And _fucking hell_. There is _pain_. Everywhere.

Derek coughs and groans and shivers and he wants to shield his wincing eyes from the sun but moving hurts too much.

There’s a sound, coming closer and closer, and Derek tries to make himself alert.

Running. Breathing. A heartbeat. But not Stiles’.

“Here! Over here!!”

\- - -

Scorching heat and quick stabs of pain. Derek wants to howl but his lungs protest at the effort. He coughs and chokes and tries to remember how to breathe. He struggles but strong hands pin him down. Garbled voices are shouting and soothing and demanding. More pain, less intense but lingering longer. _Finally_ the tingling sensation of his body healing itself.

Stiles’ heartbeat is so much closer now. Derek lets everything else fade away as he listen to it. He passes out.

\- - -

When he comes to, the pain is lingering but it’s manageable. A wave of sensations hit him at once: the coolness and sweet smell of the leather beneath him, the low hum of the car’s engine and the constant roll of the tires, the heat and shine of the setting sun, the bitterness of dirt stuck to his lips. And Peter of course, in the driver’s seat.

The car hits a pothole and Derek’s head bounces against the seat. He groans and pushes himself up, and has to give himself a moment to find his equilibrium. More potholes, and he would really like to throw up now.

“Sorry,” Peter says, glancing back. “These back roads are worthless. We’ll be on the interstate soon.”

“…Whe--” Derek clears his throat, grimaces at the taste of mud, and tries again. “Where?”

“Middle of nowhere,” Peter says with a little disdain. “When you get lost, you’re very thorough about it.” He watches Derek in the rearview and adds sincerely, “And I’m sorry it took so long for us to find you.”

“How--” Cough. “How long?” A few months at least. All that time with Stiles, and away from his pack.

“Eight days.”

“Eight?!” He shouldn’t have done that. Yelling equals lung seizure, apparently.

While he’s busy hacking and dry-heaving, Peter rummages through a shopping bag on the passenger seat and pulls out a bottle of water. “Here,” he offers, handing it back, “drink this.”

Derek grabs it with a grunt of thanks. Twisting off the cap turns his arm muscles to rubber. The first gulp is swished around in his mouth to get rid of the foul aftertaste of mud (and probably insects).

“Slowly,” Peter warns as Derek takes a second greedy gulp. “Your stomach has been empty for a week.”

Derek just grunts again and tries to look around. His eyes are adjusting to the sunlight but it still burns to keep them open for long. “Stiles?”

“Right behind us, with Scott and Isaac.” Derek looks through the back window and sure enough there’s Scott’s old Honda.

“Phone,” Derek demands, holding out his hand.

“No,” Peter retorts.

The rising growl feels strange in Derek’s weakened chest. “Peter,” he warns.

“Derek, no. He’s sleeping. He needs rest and so do you.”

“Is he…”

“He’s fine. And you will be too. We’ll be home in a few hours and you’ll get all the conversation you could want.” He sounds disgruntled but Derek is too busy looking backward to care.

Gauze is itching his skin. He scratches absently and then looks down and realizes he isn’t wearing a shirt. Peter must have torn it off to get to his wounds. The gauze is wrapped around his rib cage. There are red patches on either side, where the pain is the worst.

“How many?” Derek gestures at his torso.

“Just two. It could’ve been much worse. Both bullets just grazed you but there’s still some wolfsbane in your system. Not to mention the massive blood loss.”

“And…” Fatigue is making it hard to think, and there are two sets of memories to sort through, but he remembers someone… a threat… “The omega…?”

“Dead. Got himself killed by another pack before we could catch up.”

Which is fine with Derek. All is well, for the moment at least, so he lies down and immediately falls asleep.

\- - -

Derek is grateful to be back on his own territory. He suppresses a yawn as they drive up to the house and looks around, noticing the small things that were different or the same in his dreams. Peter offers to help him inside before the others arrive but Derek waves him off and slowly makes his way onto the porch and through the front door. The living room is to his left, looking like it always has. The entire house is well lit. Weird.

But it’s good to be home. It feels safe and welcoming and peaceful--

“Right?’

“I know!”

“And then again!”

“I _know_! It was epic!”

Scott and Isaac are out on the driveway but their voices are loud even inside the house. Loud, and cheerful. Derek gives Peter a questioning look, but Peter just responds with an exaggerated bow. “Welcome home,” he snickers. “Enjoy.”

“But we totally could’ve caught him,” Scott’s insisting.

“Oh, sure, sure,” Isaac agrees, bounding up the steps.

And then the worn and raspy voice of Stiles begging, “Oh my god, _enough_.”

Derek tries not to show his impatience as Stiles finally walks through the door. He’s slow and careful and favoring his right side, and there are scratches and bruises all over his face and arms.

“Stiles.” That shuts everyone up. Isaac and Scott gape while Peter watches Derek with interest, and Stiles ignores them all and manages a small smile as he walks over to Derek.

“Hey,” he says. “Welcome back.”

“What’s this?” Derek demands, pointing at Stiles’ face.

Stiles blushes, self-conscious, and looks down. “Nothing, really. It’s already healing.”

The light reflects off something green and for the first time Derek notices the heavy stone amulet hanging from Stiles’ neck. “And what’s _that_?”

Stiles begins to fiddle with it. “Oh, well--”

But Scott, who has been twitching with restrained energy, suddenly runs up to them and exclaims, “Isn’t it great? It’s his--”

Stiles stops him with a hand. “Call it bling one more time and _I will end you_.”

Scott’s chatter has set Isaac off. He hurries up and gives Derek a lopsided grin of welcome before adding, “It’s from Deaton. It’s how Stiles got into your mind.”

Memories have Derek and Stiles averting their eyes.

“We all got one,” Scott adds.

“Yeah,” Isaac nods enthusiastically. “But ours didn’t work.”

“Peter’s worked.”

“Sometimes.”

“A few times.”

“Because I’m related, we think,” Peter offers from the sidelines. He doesn’t mention the obvious, that Stiles isn’t family but Derek’s mind let him in with ease. But his smirk promises a lot of aggravation later on.

“Which was probably for the best,” Scott continues, oblivious.

“Because of the Omega,” Isaac explains.

“He was hard to track.”

“Even for us.”

“He was using a spell.”

“And every time we’d find his scent--”

“His scent would pop up everywhere! So annoying.”

“That’s why we couldn’t find you,” Stiles interjects softly. “The spell was spreading your scent, too.” Days of exhaustion and concern show on his face. Derek wonders why Stiles isn’t getting fed up and taking control and marching him upstairs.

Because that’s not who they are here, Derek realizes. Stiles doesn’t live here. And _he_ … he doesn’t follow, he leads. Derek wants to take him and go upstairs, but he holds himself back. All the old familiar walls are back up inside him, and he knows that taking Stiles by the hand isn’t something that he does.

And still those two are chattering.

“And I mean _buried_ ,” Scott nods seriously, bouncing on his feet. “You were at the bottom of a hill--”

“Took half the cliff with you.”

“Must’ve been a mudslide from all the rain.”

Stiles flails a bit. “Can’t you just flash your eyes or growl them into submission or something? I am actually begging here.”

“Of course it’s all his fault.”

“The omega, he means.”

“Yeah. Very badass.”

“Very crazy.”

“And you thought Stiles was dead--”

“Which he isn’t.”

“Dude, _obviously_.”

“But, Derek, seriously, you just went _berserk_ and--”

“Okay, enough!” Stiles shouts. Scott opens his mouth and Stiles stops him. “No. Uh-uh. Stiles needs quiet time.”

“And Derek needs rest,” Peter nods. He guides Scott and Isaac to the staircase. “Why don’t you two make sure his room is ready, okay?”

“Sure!”

“Okay!”

“Happy to help!” Their voices are finally muted as they head to Derek’s bedroom.

Derek points upstairs with all the authority he can muster. “Explain.”

Stiles looks like he wants to laugh _and_ cry. “Energy drinks. Many, many energy drinks. And so not our idea. Not that Peter completely discouraged it.”

Peter waves his hands defensively. “The extra energy seemed like a good idea at the time. We had all been up for days! The fact that they are now using that energy to drive you crazy, and thus punish you for your dangerous impulses, is merely a very satisfying bonus.”

“Scott started with one but he didn’t feel anything, so he drank a second one. And then a third and fourth. And Isaac suggested it was the werewolf metabolism burning through them, so he drank two at once and Isaac drank a bunch to catch up.”

“And then all six hit them at once--“

“And now we can’t get them to _stop_.”

“Honestly, this may seem bad but you weren’t here for the worst of it. So expect very little sympathy.”

Somehow Stiles manages to rolls his eyes, snort and yawn all at once.

“You need rest too,” Peter reminds him. “The guest room is still yours, for as long as you like.”

Stiles hesitates and avoids Derek’s gaze, but he eventually nods and waves goodnight and walks upstairs. Peter seems ready for bed as well but Derek stops him with an expectant look.

“Now? Really? You’re not on information overload from the Wonder Twins?”

Derek frowns. “I’ve been gone for eight days. I need to catch up.”

“The answers will be the same in the morning. You might understand them better with a few more functioning brain cells.”

“No. Now.”

“And what if Stiles hears us talking? He’ll just come right back down. You both need rest - how many times do I need to say it?”

“What happened to him?” Derek demands.

“A car accident. Nothing serious,” Peter reassures at the sight of Derek’s alarm. “A mild concussion. A few cuts. Now that you’re back he should heal quite quickly.”

Derek looks doubtful. Peter just sighs. “Derek, how do you think you’re still alive? You were _shot_. You fell off a _cliff_. And your body couldn’t heal itself with that poison in your system. I’m amazed you made it two days on your own - but the rest is due to Stiles. Once Deaton gave us the amulets and he got into your dreams, he was sharing his energy. Stiles was the one keeping you alive.”

“You should’ve stopped him!” Derek hisses, clutching his side to brace himself. His wounds are starting to seep.

“You can never stop him. What chance did I have? And it’s not like we planned this. The plan was to get into your dreams and have you tell us your location. But that nasty little coma of yours made things difficult. You kept pushing us away. We tried confronting you. We told you the truth a dozen times and you would just block it out.”

Derek just scowls and scratches at the gauze.

“I know you dislike Deaton’s tricks but we were desperate. Two days of sensing you everywhere and running in circles.” Peter grins and Derek braces himself for something inappropriate. “So what’s it like to have Stiles in your head for a week?”

“No comment,” Derek grumbles. He walks past Peter and slowly marches up the steps, pausing long enough to turn around and add, “Thank you for handling things while I was gone.”

\- - -

Derek fades in and out of sleep. He’s exhausted but he keeps panicking when a dream begins. He has to touch the sheets, sniff the air, listen for nighttime sounds to reassure himself that he’s really back. Finally he accepts defeat and listens for the one thing he really wants. He lies very still and closes his eyes and begins to sort through all the usual sounds in the house for the one heartbeat that he needs.

He finally singles it out and is surprised to find it on the other side of the door instead of down the hall. His wounds are almost gone but he’s careful to get up without strain. He pads over to the door and opens it to reveal Stiles reclined in a kitchen chair, reading a magazine.

Stiles looks a little startled but he seems too tired to react much. He just puts the magazine down and say, “Oh, hey. Can’t sleep?”

Derek shrugs.

“Um, anything I can do?”

“Have you been out here all night?”

“A few hours,” Stiles confesses.

“You need sleep.”

“So do you.”

“I was sleeping.”

Stiles looks guilty. “Did I wake you? Too much noise? God, I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

“No!” Derek calms himself and just gestures to the bedroom. “Come in. It’s warmer than the hall, at least.”

Stiles shrugs and nods and tries to look like it’s no big deal. He leaves the chair and magazine but picks up a full paper bag and follows Derek inside.

Derek’s certain that Peter is probably eavesdropping but he can’t bother to care. “Why were you out there?”

Stiles is wandering around, probably taking inventory like Derek already has, noticing what’s different than the room they shared. “Honestly? Keeping guard. It’s been a long week and I’m not quite over it yet.”

“My hero.” Derek is aiming for dry and sarcastic but it sounds more genuine than he would like. Stiles blushes a little and keeps looking around. Derek isn’t sure where they stand. And this probably isn’t the time to ask. Or maybe it’s the perfect time? Before they have time to over think things? Relationships were never easy for Derek; he doesn’t even know where to begin.

“Oh, hey, I, uh--“ Stiles gestures and Derek, grateful for the distraction, steps closer. “I have something for you.” He holds out the paper bag.

“More gifts?” Derek grins.

“Uh, more like the same gifts again. Just open it.” Stiles seems to be relaxing a little but he’s still keeping some distance between them.

Curious, Derek peeks inside - and then beams with happiness. He kneels down and carefully pours the contents out onto the floor. Books, museum brochures, Wikipedia print-outs, and countless postcards. All the art from his books, spread out before him.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “Where did you…?”

“Bookstores, mostly. And that welcome center on the highway. I needed something to keep your mind active - ‘cause we weren’t sure what kind of shape you were in? - and it’s not like I could memorize an entire book for you to read. Well, maybe I could’ve. Doubt you would’ve noticed.”

“Hey!” Derek is honestly insulted.

“What? No! I’m not questioning your intelligence, I’m questioning your attention to detail. You don’t seem to grasp just how weird your world was from my perspective. I mean, compressed time was just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Really? I never noticed.”

“Which just made it weirder.” Stiles stifles a yawn and scratches a scab on his cheek. Derek remembers that this conversation began with neither of them sleeping.

“You should sit.”

“Oh please. I wasn’t nearly as almost-dead as you.”

Derek smiles but stands his ground. There isn’t anything in here but the bed, though. Stiles glances at the door, considering the chair he left outside, then hesitates near the bed. It’s strange to see him so unsure, but then Derek remembers that they both have a say in this. And maybe it’s time for him to take control.

“You know, I think I should go. You really do need sleep.”

“I’d rather talk.” He steps closer and maintains eye contact. Stiles has always been a sucker for his eyes.

“You’re still healing.”

“You too,” Derek says, carefully thumbing Stiles’ temple.

“Derek--”

Derek trails his thumb down Stiles’ cheek, traces his jaw, his chin, his bottom lip. He leans in. “Can I? Is this still okay?”

“God, yes.” They both close the gap together and wrap their arms around each other, kissing deeply. Derek can feel the tension leaving them both and he smiles against Stiles’ lips. They keep kissing and it’s very good but relatively tame compared to what else they’ve done.

“The bed,” Stiles mumbles, his lips brushing against Derek’s.

“We can’t. Not tonight.” Tomorrow, definitely. Derek doesn’t think he can restrain himself any longer than that.

“No, yeah, that’s actually what I meant. Just, rest together.” Stiles pulls back a little and looks up with hopeful eyes. “I could stay here tonight?”

Derek doesn’t answer, he just grins and nudges Stiles’ body with his own until they’re crawling onto the bed and under the blanket.

\- - -

It’s nearly dawn. They haven’t slept much. Curled around each other, careful of various injuries, they talk in hushed tones and smile and kiss. It’s everything Derek had before, and _more_. Warmth, pulse. All of Stiles this time.

“I remember the omega coming to town and causing trouble. Threatening the pack. Threatening _you_.” And leaving a taunting voicemail on Derek’s phone. By the time they found Stiles, he was unconscious next to his car and Derek was seeing red.

“He was hiding in the back seat,” Stiles explains. “I had no idea until he grabbed the wheel. You know, when you eliminate the weirdos and the assholes, there aren’t many werewolves left.” Derek pretends to be insulted. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Don’t know why Deaton didn’t heal you while he was doing everything else.”

“A concussion? It wasn’t magical, it was medical. Nothing Deaton could do.”

“Nothing I could do either. You were…” Derek holds him tightly and breathes in his scent. “You were lying on the ground, and you were so still. And I saw someone down the street and I just _knew_ \- so I went after him.”

“And kept going after him. I get that you were angry, but chasing him out of town wasn’t enough? What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I chased him for awhile--”

“Awhile?! Derek, we found you in _Nevada_.”

“He hurt you,” Derek insists, like that explains everything. And for Derek it probably does. “He would’ve hurt the others. If I lost him, he might’ve come back.”

“You’re right,” Stiles sighs. “And I hate to sound cold, but it really doesn’t matter, ‘cause he’s dead so we win.”

“This time.”

“Every time,” Stiles insists. “I mean, yeah, things go wrong. Like, all the time. But we work it out in the end, right? And you’re alive. Honestly, Derek, I don’t give a damn about anything else at the moment. We both made it, so can we both just enjoy it? Please?”

As always, Derek can’t find the right words, so he doesn’t try. He leans forward and kisses Stiles gently, and then nuzzles into his pillow. Stiles does the same. Outside the birds are waking up and downstairs someone is making coffee. Morning sunlight is warming the bed. Derek takes it all in, savors it, and feels himself drifting off.

Stiles, half-asleep, whispers, “Which of us do you think will have freakier dreams?”

“Not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“It really isn’t.”

“It will be if I keep--”

“Go to _sleep_ , Stiles.”

“…Goodnight, Derek.”

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

“…Sweet dreams.”

“Still not funny.”


End file.
